from the chair and went toward it; opening
the lid softly, he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and
examined the strings intently. ``I am
right,'' he said; ``it is wrapped with
hair, and no doubt from a woman's head.
Eureka!'' and the old man, happy in the
discovery that his surmises were correct,
returned to his chair and his toddy.

He sat looking into the fire. The
violin had brought back memories of the
past and its dead. He mumbled, as if
to the fire, ``she loved me; she loved
my violin. I was a devil; my violin
was a devil,'' and the shadows on the
wall swayed like accusing spirits. He
buried his face in his hands and cried
piteously, ``I was so young; too young
to know.'' He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down, when suddenly
--``Sanders, don't be a fool!''

He ambled toward the table again.
``I wonder who made the violin? He
would not tell me when I asked him to-
night; thank you for your pains, but I
will find out myself,'' and he took the
violin from the case. Holding it with